Tintin in the Ottoman Empire
by Bianca Castafarina
Summary: Calculus invents a time machine that accidentally catapults Tintin into the year 1480. He lands in Italy and from there is abducted to Constantinople. Haddock and Snowy try to find him. No slash, no Mary Sues, no romance! Just plain good, old adventure.
1. Prologue

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Welcome to my first-ever Tintin fanfiction without any slash! And of course no Mary Sues, no romance and nothing too disturbing! That's because I wanted to create an Hergé-style adventure; something like a homage to the boy reporter and his much esteemed inventor.

It's based on actual historical events bent a little here and there to make the story work, and I think I should warn you of a bunch of pseudo-scientific babble in the first chapter.

English is not my native language, so feel free to point out any grammatical or spelling errors - I'll fix them _subito_! :)

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

Otranto

July 28, 1480

When Fisherman Rodolfo saw the contours of the sails at the horizon, it did not strike him as strange.

Merchants often passed this small town near the southernmost tip of the Italian peninsula, and from the distance their ships always looked like this - small and pale in the fresh morning fog of Southern Italy. The only problems that those fat Spanish or Venetian merchants caused - cheating, ursuring and haggling shamelessly - were not his problems. He was only a fisherman and had other worries. Getting up early, praying, going to the sea, that was his life. At noon his wife would take the fish to the market.

He was fifty-one years old, and there had been a time when his eyes had been better. But how could he possibly suspect something so absurd as _danger_ for this sleepy coastal village? The last time anyone tried to invade it had been hundreds of years ago. No, these were most certainly merchants.

He stood one of the small footbridges of the haven and tried to pull the fishnet with its weights onto the deck. Even though the sun was just rising and the air was still cool and fresh, he was already sweating.

He heard a loud thump behind him, and turned around.

There was young Giovanni, the lazybones, the _fannullone_, who had obviously just stumbled out of a tavern after a long night of wine and whores. What else could he possibly be doing at this early morning hour when everyone save the fishermen were still asleep?

Giovanni had dropped a heavy shoulder bag onto the ground, and with some surprise Rodolfo noted that the lad did not appear drunk at all.

Hastily, Giovanni stepped onto the footbridge, staring at the horizon. He did not look at the fisherman.

Rodolfo felt intruded upon. "What are you doing out here?", he asked. "Hey, careful, don't fall into my boat!" The young man should be working hard at his father's farm, or studying somewhere. Today's youth was spoiled and lazy, unwilling to either work or study.

Finally Giovanni noticed the fisherman. "Look here", he said, "at the horizon! There! Don't you see it?"

Rodolfo stared straight ahead. "Three ships. So what?"

"No, there are four!"

"It's impossible to tell with all that fog." That wasn't entirely true. Rodolfo now saw more than before, even though the white haze still lay over the sea like a bride's veil. The ships had come closer.

"They're going fast", Giovanni said.

Rodolfo tried to remember whether the Spanish or Venetian trading vessels usually were that fast. It was possible they were in a hurry – perhaps they had injured people aboard who despite (or because of) the skills of the ship's own quack were now at death's door. And there was another possibility -

No, no. That was nonsense.

As if he had read the fisherman's thoughts, young Giovanni said, "It shan't be our problem. What would the Moors want here?"

"The Moors?" Rodolfo laughed. This was an unimportant little place with nothing of interest to pirates. If the robber bandits from Tripolis, Tanger and Fez wanted a worthwhile target, it wouldn't be a sleepy coastal town like Otranto, whose biggest treasure was a relic from Saint Catherine, worthless to those heathens.

Other fishermen had arrived and were preparing their boats. Some watched the sea, exchanging nervous looks. But Rodolfo told himself there was no reason to worry about anything.

Just when he was getting ready to get aboard, he heard Giovanni shout, "Stop! I can see them now!"

"What? What?" Confused, the fisherman stared at the horizon. The ships were getting a lot closer.

"Wake up everyone", Giovanni shouted. "Tell everyone! We need to ring the bells! Quickly, let's go and tell everyone! It's the Turks! _Sono i Turchi!_"

.

.

.

Francesco Zurlo, the _commandante_ of the town guard of Otranto, had already noticed the sails before the fishermen came running to him. Panicking, they had left their boats and nets behind.

Indeed, the ships were now close enough for him to see the large green half-moon that was painted on each sail.

Francesco Zurlo knew there was no time to count the approaching vessels – they were too many. An entire goddamned fleet. "Seal off the harbor", he ordered the soldiers. "Ring the alarm! Sound all bells in town!"

While the men went out to fulfill his orders, Zurlo stayed in the tower of the citadel. Supporting himself with one hand on the damp brick wall in order not to sink to the ground, he pondered all possibilities of defense. Would the infidels besiege Otranto, just as they had done with Constantinople decades earlier? No, surely they would attack instantly. After all, Otranto did not have a good defense. All they had was this old walled citadel and a bunch of inexperienced men-at-arms. The inhabitants had to be evacuated into the citadel at once.

Looking out of the small tower window overlooking the azure blue Mediterranean sea, sparkling in the morning sun, he saw the fleet approaching. Large, agile ships with wide sails showing the green half-moon, menacing like the sickle of the Grim Reaper.

.

.

.

Rodolfo the fisherman did not immediately understand the alarm. The Turks? Then he remembered. Weren't they those infidels who once, to the dismay of the entire Christian Occident, conquered the town of Constantinople? That had been almost thirty years ago, but even now they were respected and feared.

Giovanni had gone pale and was now running around town, shouting everyone out of their bed with the news. The alarm from the church bells had already woken several people. Men, women and children stood there, most in their nightshirts, and in their faces he could see a broad spectrum of expressions – incomprehension, fear, determination.

It would turn out to be a false alarm, wouldn't it? Otranto was uninteresting for attackers, and they had the protection of Lord God the Almighty – he would never allow an Italian town to fall into the hands of infidels, would he?

The bells were still tolling, but it wasn't the same sound that called people to Mass. It was a wild, long, uncoordinated storm alarm.

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><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTES:<strong>

The background of this story is based on actual historical events. The Southern Italian town of Otranto was sacked by the Ottomans under the command of Gedik Ahmed Pasha in the summer of 1480.

We'll now meet our heroes – Tintin, the Captain, the Thom(p)sons and Professor Calculus – in Chapter 1! :)


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Brussels

1960

„You have invented _what_?" Tintin stared incredulously at Professor Calculus.

„A time machine, my dear friends!" Calculus beamed, adjusting his hearing aid. „Look! Isn't she a beauty? I know, I know, you have many questions, and I shall explain it to you in detail."

They were standing in his laboratory near Marlinspike Hall, in front of a strange contraption that seemed to have materialized straight out of a Jules Verne science fiction novel. Captain Haddock, who had been eyeing the whole set-up suspiciously, just as Snowy still did, burst into laughter. „Ha ha ha! Now old Calculus is truly acting the- I mean, has done the impossible! Ha ha ha! This is simply priceless!" Bending over with laughter and pointing at the machine, he exclaimed, „You should've become a science fiction author, Cuthbert! _That_ thing could not even fly to the moon, much less into the past!"

Indeed: it was a most strange machine, Tintin thought. Constructed of a similar metal like the shark submarine that Calculus had built to retrieve Red Rackham's treasure, but with a lot more cables and buttons and levers, it reminded him remotely of those new super calculators that had been invented and refined during the war. Though it was bigger than a calculating machine and had several lamps attached to it – if they were lamps, those things. The entire machine was standing on a large sheet of what seemed to be a dull metal, perhaps lead.

Thomson and Thompson exchanged looks and declared, „Well, if that isn't a most novel invention... Too bad, dear Professor, that time travel is impossible to accomplish."

„To be precise: Apossible to incomplish."

„That's what I thought at first, too", Calculus admitted, „so I never told anyone about the time machine. They'd ridicule it and I would have gotten discouraged when I started out. That was five years ago. But now I have finally managed to send rats and rabbits into the past, and I hope to send human volunteers soon as well. All that I still need to do is to find a way to have them return to the time-place from where they departed."

„Thundering typhoons", Captain Haddock shouted, „what have you done to these poor animals? Sent them into the past? Well, if they disappeared, your machine probably _vaporized_ them! If you think that any human would ever be so daft to willingly get zapped by that monster... you've finally lost touch with reality, Cuthbert!"

Tintin turned to Calculus. „I don't mean to be rude, Professor", he began, „but scientists have established that time travel is impossible. It violates the law of causality, by which one event that happens in our universe leads to an endless one-way string of more events – one can't simply go back."

„Obviously you don't know Einstein's theory by which time is relative and events don't happen in sequence. On the contrary: there are unlimited events in co-existing universes, all as real as the universe and space-time continuum in which we're present right now-"

„Wait, wait," Thomson interjected, „_Space-time continuum_?"

„The theory that time can't exist without space, and vice versa", Calculus replied, „they're always linked to each other because everything that happens in the universe always involves both time _and_ space. Depending on the space in which you move, time is adjusted accordingly. We measure time and call it hours and dates, but actually, all those 'past' and 'future' events are existing right now, in spaces parallel to our own – the multiverse.

The entire concept of measuring time is an illusion, designed by the human mind's natural desire for order; and I have discovered how we can travel to any other time-place in space. Because endless possibilities and events co-exist, something that happens in the 'past' would not influence the 'future'. In other words, you could go back in time to kill your own father before you were born – it wouldn't prevent your birth at all. It would just create another parallel reality in which you do not exist."

„That makes sense to me so far", Tintin said, „but if measuring time is really an illusion, how do you tell your machine where you want to go? I mean, if the year '1800' doesn't exist as such... how would your machine find that place called '1800'? How does it know where you want to go?"

Calculus pointed a finger at Tintin. „You are right. Actually, I haven't figured that out yet. Those animals I've sent into the so-called past or future – they have traveled randomly, and they could be in any possible parallel universe right now – any place and time. We'll probably never know. As I mentioned, I haven't yet found a way to make them return here.

The only thing I've managed so far is to restrict the possible travel destinations to a very small number of time-places. If I didn't do that, one might end up anywhere – yes, it'd be possible to end up in the 19th century, as likely as landing in the primeval soup billions of years ago, or one day or billion years in the future from now. Anything would be possible, you see? So I had to restrict destinations."

Apparently Haddock still thought the whole thing was either very dangerous or very amusing. „So now you've decided where the train goes?" He raised an eyebrow. „And how, pray, do you do that? Tell the clerk 'I would like a ticket to Beijing in the Yuan Dynasty...'? Ha ha ha ha!"

Calculus remained serious. „That's where quantum technology comes in", he answered. „I gathered you've heard of it? My machine is based on quantum foam used for creating wormholes to reach a parallel universe, and the type of parallel universe you want to travel to has to be described at a subatomar level. As you know, quantum mechanics provide a mathematical description of the behaviour of waves and particles and interactions of energy and matter. If you gather enough information to describe, let's say, Indonesia in 1955, at a subatomar level, you can feed the computer that information and it'll send you to a parallel universe that's quite close to said time-place."

„So if you describe the medieval era mathematically in terms of quantum mechanics...?"

„Yes, there would be differences between the particle construction of, for example, today's Beijing and the Paris of 2,000 years ago, just to name an example. The population density, the presence or absence of certain minerals, plants, animals or certain particles in the air... there are thousands, perhaps millions of variables that can define a certain time-place in an universe. I haven't managed to determine a specific date and place as a travel destination, because the amount of data needed would be too enormous even for my supercomputers. Furthermore I simply don't have enough data available to make a distinction between many time-places.

All I have managed so far is to feed the computer enough data to determine a journey destination in a time-place we'd call the European Middle Ages. That's the only specific destination we can now reach via the quantum foam.

And I'm not even sure how specific it is. All data I fed the computer is based on theory, on pure guesswork. I can only hope that- HEY! STAY BACK!"

Startled, Tintin looked around to see the Thom(p)sons similarly startled. They had been looking at slots in the machine more closely and now retreated hastily.

„Don't touch anything!" Calculus seemed slightly panicked. „The machine isn't finished yet. If anything happens... oh dear, who know what may happen!"

„You'll get vaporized", Captain Haddock muttered. „Like those poor lab rats!"

„But no, Captain!" Calculus replied. „The machine does not vaporize anyone! It simply lets you access the wormhole to a specified parallel universe via quantum foam!"

Tintin was unconvinced that such a thing could actually work. Wasn't the theory of quantum mechanics something that had been proposed in scientific circles only a few years ago? But the machine looked fascinating! There was a big reflectorlike shield attached to it, remotely resembling a giant spotlight, directly over Tintin's head.

He noticed a door to which many cables and pipes where leading along the floor and the walls. „Professor", he asked, curious by nature, „what's behind that door?"

„That?" Calculus opened the door by entering a numeric code, then it opened slowly with a low creak. „The computer room. One computer wouldn't suffice for all the necessary quantum data. So I've assembled forty-two of them in this room."

Astonished, Tintin stared into the room that was as big as a gym. Closet-sized computers were installed here with lots of cables on the floor around them, and pipes of what seemed to be an ingenious cooling system.

„Forty-two, eh?" Haddock said. „The answer's always forty-two..."

„Fascinating", was all Tintin managed to say. Calculus smiled and closed the door. Tintin stepped back, and once again looked at the giant spotlight above his head. How would it feel to travel that way? Where would one land? However sceptical he was by nature, his adventurous curiosity usually won the upper hand.

„Hey!" Calculus shouted once again at the Thom(p)sons. „Don't touch this!"

„Don't worry, we weren't-" Thomson began.

„NO!" Calculus screamed. Tintin looked up and saw that Thomson's cane had hooked itself around one of the levers of the machine.

Before Thomson realized what his cane was up to, he had already stepped back from the machine; thus pulling the lever with his cane.

_Great snakes!_ From Tintin's experience such things usually didn't end well.

The next thing he knew he was enveloped in a glaring white light. He still heard a faint „NO!" from Professor Calculus, but then the voice was gone, the room around him was gone, and everything was gone.

The world was gone.


	3. Chapter 2

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Chapter 2

Otranto

July 29, 1480

The white light had been most unpleasantly dazzling, forcing Tintin to close his eyes. There was a dull ringing in his ears, but it subdued after a few seconds.

Finally the light faded out. Amazed at how such a seemingly ordinary spotlight lamp could produce such a glaring, intense light, Tintin slowly opened his eyes, relieved that nothing had happened to him. Well, enough of that silly machine. He wasn't convinced of Calculus' multiverse theory anyway. Time to return home to Marlinspike Hall! He felt just fine.

Fine until he saw the world around him.

He was standing in a dusty, unpaved town square surrounded by small houses in sand-colored stone. Slowly turning around, eyes wide and mouth agape, he saw a cathedral behind him, taller than all other buildings and constructed in similar sand-colored stone – not as grand as the church of Nôtre-Dame, but still impressive and solid, especially compared to the buildings around it. A blazing summer sun was shining down onto him from a bright blue sky.

There were no people around him.

What the...

What the...!

_Great snakes._

Wait, he hadn't actually traveled in time, had he? This looked very much like a suburb of Bagghar, Morocco. Perhaps he was halluzinating and this was a mirage, a _fata morgana_. That strange machine... apparently it had projected some kind of fantasy world around him.

But it seemed so real!

No, it certainly was a facade, a movie scenery. He had heard of holographic technology that could project threedimensional, realistic imagines into space. But then... why was the sun so hot? And why did he hear the cawing of seagulls? Looking up, he saw a pair of seagulls flying across the sky.

_Great snakes, don't tell me I've actually traveled in time!_

He dropped to his knees, staring at dusty, pale dirt. There were footprints on the ground, but he saw no people around him. Trying not to panic, he tried to ask himself the most important questions, as he usually did as a reporter. _When in doubt, keep calm and ask questions._

Where was he?

What was going on around him?

Why were there no people?

Most importantly: How would he get back to Marlinspike Hall?

Looking around once more, he took in details of his eeriely quiet surroundings. Some of the houses were painted white; most of them possessed wooden window shutters – some were closed, some open. A few seagulls and pigeons were perching on the red-tiled roofs. The front doors of the houses were closed, as was the cathedral. There were signs posted on walls, a tabernacle like those he had seen in Florence, a well in front of the cathedral with a number of wooden buckets next to it. He spotted a basket full of fruit – fuzzy yellow peaches, upon closer inspection – that someone seemed to have forgotten-

_There!_

He'd glanced the movement from the corner of his eye and whirled around, only to find a cat. It gave him a curious stare, then walked away.

Where was he? This apparently wasn't a ghost town: the peaches looked too fresh for that. Then, already sweating in the hot noon sun, he realized it must be siesta hour. Of course! People were in their cool houses and cellars, waiting for the afternoon! They would reappear soon.

But that still did not answer his question satisfactorily. With the seasoned pragmatism of an experienced researcher who had seen the most improbable and unbelievable places on earth (and the Moon!), he calmly admitted that yes, he might indeed have traveled back into the past. Or into a parallel reality, if Calculus' multiverse theory was correct.

From faraway there was a dull explosion that startled him. Then, a swooshing sound in the air.

He looked up to see something – about the size of an egg or tennis ball; it was hard to judge from his standpoint – fly through the air, as if it had been catapulted, until it crashed into one of the tiled roofs, scaring a bunch of seagulls that dispersed with wildly flapping wings.

Crumbs! Where had that come from?

He wouldn't be able to assess the situation until he knew where he was. It appeared to be Italy, Greece, Spain or some small state on the Adriatic coast – hadn't Calculus mentioned the European Middle Ages? Surely it wasn't Saracen North Africa, judging from the image of the Virgin Mary in that tabernacle on a house wall.

He started walking, not quite sure where to go – he needed to explore, to gain at least an illusion of control because that was all he could now do. There were various narrow roads branching out from each direction of the town square. Further away he saw parts of a large citadel or a fortress of some kind with a high wall.

Another explosion, then a projectile – or whatever that might be – whirled through the air, landing on the bare ground a few metres in front of him. He ran towards it, coughing as he ran through the clouds of dust, and examined it: it was a round stone ball the size of an orange.

He heard another crash as two more cannonballs flew out from behind the wall of the citadel, hitting the well and smashing half of it into pieces of sandy bricks.

Oh, crumbs...!

Literally.

Since this place was under attack, it'd probably be smart to get out of here. Tintin began running away from the direction where the cannonballs had been fired from, through empty, narrow roads and lanes flanked by white-washed and brick walls of houses. Objects were strewn about the ground here and there: a few vegetables, a rotting fish, a wooden cup, a shoe. Noting every detail in an effort to gain some understanding of the situation, Tintin paused in his tracks to read a document that was plastered onto the wall.

What a strange handwriting! He could not decipher this – it looked like the Carolingian minuscule script which he had studied way back in the past and forgotten everything about. But the headline was clearly printed and he could read it:

LE NOVITÀ DI OTRANTO – ANNO SALUTIS MCDLXXX LUGLIO XII

That Roman number. It read _fourteen hundred and eighty. _The date. Great snakes, the date! The twelfth of July, 1480. And that first sentence was clearly Italian. But _Otranto_? He had no idea where or who that was.

The document seemed fairly new, so the current date couldn't be far from July 12. Tintin felt himself getting dizzy. Renaissance Italy? _Oh, mon Dieu, Tintin, this is probably the biggest mess you ever landed in._

Having a sense of time and place was a relief. Being the well-traveled famous reporter, he naturally knew Italian, along with some Latin he'd learned at the Catholic school, so there should be no language barriers. But that brought him to the next question: How would he get back to his own time – or time-space, as Calculus would say? Trying not to panic at the thought, he continued walking, discovering other similar notes on the wall, along several kinds of graffiti. Those he could decipher often advertised something for sale.

If at least he could talk to someone... He needed answers! Acting before thinking, he knocked loudly onto one of the doors.

No response.

Frantically he ran to another house, knocking onto the closed window shutter. „_Ciao, ciao_", he shouted in Italian, „_Qualcuno? Qualcuno é a casa? Ho bisogno d'aiuto!_" Somebody? Is somebody home? I need help!

Again no response. He was just about to continue running when the window shutter opened, squeaking in its rusty hinges. Through a small gap Tintin saw a human face, barely illuminated by the sunlight, just enough to tell that it was a woman. She stared at him.

„_Chi voi_?" she snapped at him. „_Arrassati!_"

What? What had she just said? It had sounded like Italian but made no sense to his ears.

Of course, he'd guessed they had spoken differently five hundred years ago. But _that much_ differently?

„_Che cosa_?" he shouted, but she had already closed the shutter. Tintin stared at it, torn between relief that he wasn't alone in this godforsaken late medieval-era village, and concern about what to do.

A loud crash tore him out of his thoughts. Another projectile had hit a roof. Clearly the houses weren't safe hiding places. Time to get out of here!

Constantly running in the opposite direction of the village's presumed attackers, he finally saw a high wall with two towers and a closed gate between them. To his surprise there were three guards at the gate, busy piling up large stones and something that appeared to be sand bags.

When they saw him, they paused for several seconds. Big, burly men armed with swords and knives.

Tintin retreated a step. Maybe he shouldn't draw attention to himself... With his anachronistic clothes and haircut he was probably too conspicuous already.

„_Ehi, piccolo_", one of the men shouted. „_Chi voi? Pirchì no stai alla chìesa?_"

Ah, finally! This, even though it sounded like a strange dialect, Tintin could understand. The man had asked why he wasn't at church. But why the church? What did the guy mean?

„_Devo andarmene_", Tintin replied, hopeful that the guards would understand his modern 20th century-Italian. „_Per favore, lasciatemi andare fuori!_" I have to go. Please, let me go out of here!

„_Fùora?_" another guard snapped at him, then gesticulating wildly, he fired several sentences at Tintin, rapidly like machine-gun fire, and then pointed at the direction from where Tintin had come. „_Va' alla chìesa_", he shouted. „_Nuddu puó nìesciri! Amunì!_"

Tintin must have stared at them confusedly for a few seconds too much, for the other guard stepped closer to him, and spoke again, more slowly this time. „_Capìto, piciriddu? La chìesa. La cattedrale!... Amunì, dai!_"

They wanted him to go to church. Why there? Now, of all times?

Clearly he would not get out of this town, unless he managed to take out three armed guys much bigger and stronger than him.

But maybe they had a reason telling him to go there! What else was there to do, anyway? He was a stranger in a strange land with absolutely no idea how things worked here. He needed to let go of all the notions and prejudices he had about the Renaissance, about the medieval era, about Italy, just about everything. Without saying anything, Tintin turned around and ran the way back.

The attacks were increasing in frequency. He dodged two small cannonballs that crashed into the ground dangerously close to him, before arriving at the _piazza_ where he had landed; the abandoned town square dominated by the large church. He ran towards the church door, a heavy wooden gate with elaborate wooden relief panels, and moved the huge brass knocker. „_Aiuto_", he shouted, mouth close to the door, „_Aiuto_!" - 'Help!'

No response.

Feeling brazen because he had nothing to lose, he shouted „_Mamma! Papà! Mi avete dimenticato! Lasciatemi entrare!_" Mom! Dad! You've forgotten about me! Let me enter!

His heart made a little jump when the door opened. He heard voices, and suddenly stared at a male face through a gap in the door no wider than his hand.

Desperately, Tintin spread out his arms to show that he was not armed. „_Prego, lasciatemi entrare_", he begged, not quite sure why he was doing this.

The door opened wide, and before Tintin could protest, several hands grabbed his shirt and arms, and he felt himself dragged into the church, stumbling and falling upon the cold stone floor.

Cool air hit his face and would have felt like a fresh breeze if it hadn't been rather musty. His sunlight-blinded eyes took a minute to adjust to the relative darkness inside the church, and since he offered no resistance to the hands of the people, they soon let go of him, closing the door behind him.

Kneeling on the ground, Tintin looked around him. A circle of people was forming around him, looking at him curiously.

„_Non avi la facci d'un Turco_", a woman said to another.

Tintin quickly scrambled to his feet. „_Buon giorno_", he said, hastily looking for words „_Io... io non capisco cosa accade qui... Potete capire cosa sto dicendo?_" Good day. I.. I don't understand what's happening here... Can you understand what I'm saying?

People looked at each other, obviously not comprehending what he had said. „_Cue sei?_" a woman asked.

Tintin was growing desperate. Right now he had only one goal: To be on the side of these people so they would not think him one of their attackers. Perhaps one of them understood Latin. There had to be a priest around, right? „_Nomen meus est Tintin_", he attempted, searching for long-forgotten vocabulary in the attic of his brain. „_Ego sum... er... italianus_."

An elderly man walked forwards. He was clean-shaven with a bare head of receding gray hair, and dressed a little more finely than the people around him. Pointing at Tintin, he declared, „_Parra fiorentinu. Lassami parrari cu'di_." He looked at Tintin. „_Voi siete fiorentino?_"

Finally! Tintin exhaled a breath of relief. Finally, someone who spoke something closer to modern Italian! It wasn't quite the same but he could understand it much better than that strange dialect the other people had spoken. „_Sì_", Tintin replied, „_sono fiorentino_."

He'd just said that he was from Florence. And it made sense: he remembered that back in the Middle Ages, the modern Italian language had been just another dialect. There was no single 'Italian' language much less an unified state; the entire peninsula was made up of several kingdoms, duchies and republics with various local dialects. Italians from the North could not understand Southern Italians at all – some of these differences persisted well into the 20th century. The Italian that Tintin knew was the Italian used by the Florentine poet Dante Alighieri, whose 14th century epos _The Divine Comedy_ had made the Florentine „dialect" widely popular. Dante later was credited with „linguistically unifying Italy".

The elderly man was looking up and down at Tintin, and finally noted, „_Che strano modo di vestirsi!_" - What a strange way to dress! „_Ma i fiorentini sempre han avuto una tendenza alle cose strane!" - _But the Florentines always have had an inclination to strange things!

Though still confused, Tintin knew he needed to play his role and the current situation was no joking matter. „_Sì, sono straniero, e non so nulla di che cosa accade qui... Vi prego di spiegarmelo. Chi sta attaccando la città, e perché?_" - Yes, I am a foreigner, and I have no idea what's going on here... I beg you to explain it to me. Who is attacking the town and why?

The elderly man said something to the other people in that strange dialect of theirs, then turned back to Tintin and again switched to Florentine. „I just told them you're not dangerous... My God, boy, you're truly a stranger! What an unfortunate time to be here, I almost pity you. Let me introduce myself. I am a tailor, and my name is Antonio Pezzulla. They call me Primaldo."

Primaldo was probably some sort of leader if people here did not question him – perhaps a so-called „village elder". He was a head shorter than Tintin, slim and seemed to be in his mid-sixties or early seventies, and though his pale face was quite wrinkled, he moved with the nimbleness and grace of someone younger. His clothes showed his skill as a tailor: the tight pants and doublet, half-covered with a long cloak, were well made, colorful and seemed to fit perfectly.

Looking around, Tintin marveled how quiet the interior of the cathedral was, considering how many people were inside here. They were mainly women and children, a few elderly men and several teenagers. He heard a baby cry. There must be about hundred or two hundred people in here, Tintin guessed, so he did not attract as much attention as he had feared.

„My name is Tintin", he said once again. He'd have to make up an entire story for himself in order not to arouse too much suspicion. „and I've just arrived here."

„That explains why I did not recognize you." Primaldo motioned him further inside the church and they walked towards an empty wooden bench in a corner. „Sit down, lad... Tell me, how old are you? And on what business have you arrived in Otranto?" His voice was gentle but clearly inquisitive and used to giving orders.

„I'm twenty-one." Tintin decided to speak the truth on that matter. „And-"

„Twenty-one!" Primaldo shouted, eyes wide in surprise. „By the hair on my mother's face! I assumed you to be a boy! So then, why are you not in the citadel like the other men?"

_Saperlipopette!_ Tintin knew he needed to be extremely careful. Time to make up a story, a plausible, convincing explanation for his sudden appearance. „Well... I arrived in town... a few nights ago." Wait, since when had the town gates been closed? Tintin realized he was sweating. He needed to _find_ answers, not give answers! „I stayed at the inn and when they called the men to arms, it seemed they forgot about me... I must have missed it."

Primaldo laughed. „A ha ha ha!"

Um, was that good or bad? Tintin smiled uneasily, but then decided that he had nothing further to lose. „I came here to visit my uncle, on family business."

„Ah, your uncle? What's his name?

Tintin promptly said the first Italian name that came to his mind. „Benito Mussolini."

„Mussolini, eh? Hmm. I've never heard of this family." Primaldo raised an eyebrow, again looking at Tintin from top to bottom. Then he waved his hand through the air. „_Be'... _this is a big town, and not even I know all the families here! All right, lad, I have to admit I don't quite know what to make of you. You're unarmed and look harmless, but you still might be a Turk." The last words were a whisper.

„A Turk?" So this town was being attacked by the Ottomans?

„_Iddio!_" Primaldo shook his head. „You're either the daftest country bumpkin ever to cross the Calabrian border – then I'd be surprised you made it from Florence to here in one piece! - , or the most ingenious snooper that the Grand Turk's own espionage academy ever churned out!"

Tintin wished he'd read a book about Renaissance Italy lately so he wouldn't have so many questions now.

Another elderly man walked towards Tintin and Primaldo. He was wearing a long black robe with a crucifix pendant around his neck, a stern expression on his face which was as clean-shaven and pale as Primaldo's. Most certainly this was a priest. Looking at Tintin, then at Primaldo, he asked, „_Cue é chiddu picciùottu cui capiddi russi?_"

Primaldo quickly stood up from the bench. „He's called Tintin", he hastily replied in Florentine, but immediately switched to the Southern dialect, rapidly explaining something Tintin could not understand. They conversed for a while, occasionally throwing concerned glances at Tintin, then Primaldo said:

„Archbishop Pendinelli says you must stay here. No offense, boy, but there's a chance you might be a spy; and so we need to make sure you can't run off to your masters." His expression was serious.

Confusedly, Tintin nodded, even though dozens of questions were screaming through his head, all at the same time.

„But worry not." Primaldo's face contorted into a gap-toothed grin. „This is the safest place you can be. Not only can the church withstand a lot more artillery impact than the other buildings, but Archbishop Pendinelli said that as a sanctuary it will offer divine protection."

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTES:<strong>

The „15th century Campanian/Calabrese dialect" the characters are speaking here is actually Sicilian, or my own attempt at such. In reality we don't really know what their everyday language was like five hundred years ago. Also, I don't actually speak Sicilian and apologize to all Sicilians for the mistakes I might have made.

'Saperlipopette!' is an old-fashioned French exclamation, similar to 'Jolly gosh!' It's used a few times in the French Tintin albums.

Fun fact: Today's Otranto has a street called „Via Antonio Primaldo." Yes, he was an actual person!

And you can explore Otranto on Google Street View! Do check out the badass fortress and the cathedral (called _Santissima Annunziata_ on the Google map) – it doesn't look like it's ever been attacked :) Also, Google says it's only a short walk from the cathedral to the citadel.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Brussels

1960

Captain Haddock was disturbed and furious.

He could not remember the last time he'd been that upset – not even back then in Tibet, when the Abominable Snowman had stolen his whisky, he'd been _that_ upset. He hoped the Thom(p)sons would forgive them for his outburst just now, when he'd thrown about two dozen swearwords at them and asked why they couldn't even _look_ at a machine without causing mayhem.

He grabbed Professor Calculus by the collar and shouted:

„Billions of blue blistering barnacles in a thundering typhoon! Do you realize what you have done, you miserable earthworm of a crazy inventor? Kleptomaniac! Body-snatcher! Misguided missile! Pyromaniac! Ostrogoth! Vandal!"

„Captain, calm down! It's not like Tintin has been-"

„What, you... you miserable technocrat? WHAT?"

„...killed", Calculus finished his sentence.

Captain Haddock stared at him. That had been the word he had not even dared _think_.

Suddenly feeling weak, he let go of Calculus, retreating a couple of steps. Blistering barnacles! What if Tintin would never be able to come back... then it would not matter whether he'd actually traveled in time, or had been vaporized, as Haddock preferred to call it.

„Well, then, what's happened to Tintin?" he snapped at the Professor.

„Woof, woof!" Snowy was restless, running around to and fro, not comprehending where his master had suddenly gone.

Calculus hesitated, then spoke slowly as if he himself needed time to accept his own words. „Since there's only one timeframe and place the quantum data in the computer allows the time machine to access, Tintin's currently somewhere in Europe during the Middle Ages."

Haddock did not speak. He simply shook his head, and sat down on a chair. The Thom(p)sons looked at each other, white as bedsheets.

.

Later during the evening of the same day, Captain Haddock turned to whisky. He still had not entirely accepted that Tintin was gone but already needed to drown the facts in Loch Lomond.

But then he remembered his ancestor Francis of Hadoque, who had refused to drink at a crucial moment when he needed all his wits about him. He put away the bottle.

Calculus was competent, wasn't he? His shark submarine had been well-made, and he'd even constructed a moon rocket – and sent it to the Moon and back! So what if the time machine actually worked? As absent-minded as the Professor was, he was a genius, and perhaps he had just made the invention of the century if not the invention of the millenium!

The very idea of Tintin being all alone in a dangerous, strange place was nearly enough to make the Captain's innards squirm with fear. He knew it was silly, but he couldn't help it – he was already used to worrying about Tintin, even if the lad was the last person on earth to require a bodyguard.

But that place! The European medieval era? Grimy, disturbing images of heavily armored robber barons on war-horses appeared in his mind; dangerous bandits plundering and pillaging towns, cruelly slaughtering everyone in their path. Those had been dark, truly _dark_ times!

Thundering typhoons, there was absolutely no way he could abandon his best friend now! How could Tintin ever hope to survive on his own in such a place and time?

„Nestor", Captain Haddock shouted, and the loyal butler arrived quickly from the kitchen. „Nestor, I'm departing right now. I don't know how long I'll be gone, but I'm counting on you to guard the house."

„Of course, master". If Nestor was surprised, he didn't show it. „I shall pack your suitcase immediately-"

„No, that won't be necessary", Haddock said. „I don't need it." Pausing for a moment, he looked at Nestor. A strange feeling had come over him, a mix of fear and nostalgia. Nestor didn't know yet what had happened to Tintin (but being as discreet as he was loyal, he had not yet asked questions). And now Haddock was about to leap into the uncertain, into an adventure that might be more dangerous even than their journey to the Moon.

He extended a hand towards Nestor. „I shall try to be back soon", he said. „Nestor, you've been an excellent butler. I... I value and appreciate your work very much."

Too flabbergasted to reply, and now visibly surprised at the seriousness in Haddock's voice, Nestor simply stared at him. Then he regained his voice. „Um... Master Haddock, where are you going?"

They shaked hands. „Away", Haddock said. No sense in explaining something so insane. „But I'll be back." _Hey, don't fool yourself, Archie!,_ a voice in the back of his mind said. „Yes... well, if I'm not back within a month, then... um..."

Dismiss Nestor? Give him Marlinspike Hall? Suddenly Captain Haddock remembered that he still had a copy of his testament, written before their journey to the Moon. „Well, Nestor, if I'm not back within a month, you'll find a copy of my last will and testament in the mahogany secretary in my bedroom, top drawer to the left. _Au revoir!_… Now I have to leave. Snowy, come here! Here! … Good dog, Snowy. Let's go find your master."

Snowy seemed just as dumbstruck as Nestor, not protesting when Haddock picked him up and walked out of the villa with him, towards Cuthbert Calculus' laboratory.

.

.

.

Otranto

August 3, 1480

One day in the cathedral of Otranto soon became one week.

It was the third of August. Tintin was growing more anxious and hungry every day, as did the roughly hundred and fifty women, children and elderly people in the cathedral.

The town was under attack almost every day, and from the outside they heard the occasional thundering sounds of cannonballs and large stones crashing into buildings. The cathedral, too, was damaged: two cannonballs each had smashed a window and part of the apsis above the altar while, luckily, no one had been there. Archbishop Stefano Pendinelli interpreted the lack of casualties inside the church as a sign of 'divine protection'. And everyone was more than ready to listen to him. They had no one else to turn to.

Every day, a garrison fighter came running from the citadel to the church; bringing them the latest news about the Ottoman siege which everybody, including Tintin, was eager to hear.

„Today they've sent us a message", he told them breathlessly. „Their commander, Gedik Ahmed Pasha, demands that we surrender and then we would be free and not face any punishment. But of course we can't surrender, and we told them that. De Marco said if the Grand Turk wants Otranto he'd have to take it by force. And he told the messenger not to come back."

Ladislao De Marco, as Tintin had learned by now, was one of the town's leading citizens and somehow involved in the defense, probably as a man-at-arms under the garrison commander Francesco Zurlo. He also had managed to send a messenger to the town of Lecce and further north, asking for military aid from the king of Naples, Ferrante d'Aragon.

They needed help very badly. As far as what he could understand from the messenger's reports and Primaldo's translations, Otranto stood no chance. The Ottoman fleet was comprised of at least a hundred ships, twenty-eight of which were galleys, with a total strength of 18,000 infantrymen and 700 cavalrymen. They possessed not only better archery bows and arrows, but also technologically advanced cannons, peculiar cannonballs that exploded when they hit the ground, and cannons small enough to be carried by one man. Their powerful gunpowder did not develop much smoke and allowed them to refill and fire artillery in fast sequence.

Otranto, on the other hand, did not possess a single cannon, and even though 5,000 inhabitants were ready to fight, few of them were experienced in battle.

They would need all the aid they could get. Tintin regretted that he'd never learnt much about Italian history, so he had no idea how this battle would end. Would help from Naples or the Papal states arrive in time, or would the Ottomans conquer the town? However it ended, he hoped it'd end quickly. He was growing more hopeless every minute, close to tears every moment he thought about Marlinspike Hall. The air in the cathedral stank since people did not go anywhere to wash (Tintin, too, felt quite uncomfortable in his clothes by now); and many children relieved themselves on the floor. It was like a nightmare he did not wake up from.

Their messenger brought food to the church, of course, but it was never enough for so many people. So every day, when there was no bombardment raining down upon the city for an hour or so, they sent someone out to run home and bring all the food they could carry; and someone to fetch water from the well. So far most people who'd gone out had come back to the church unharmed. Only once a woman had not returned, and it was assumed that she'd been killed by falling rubble.

In addition, the Archbishop, whom he'd initially mistaken for a priest, held Mass twice a day. Never before had Tintin seen a community so desperately devout; the clung to each word that Archbishop Pendinelli read from the bible or shouted in his sermon, and sang the _Te Deum_ with a fervor that made the nuns at Tintin's Catholic elementary school seem like layabouts. Since Tintin was familiar with the rites he soon felt irresistibly drawn to the service. It was so much like he knew it: the Latin texts and the rituals had not changed in five hundred years. Though he'd never been religious nor homesick, he now longed for the familiarity of the Mass. Strangely, it gave him some kind of hope in this terrible medieval nightmare.

During the day, he tried talking to people from time to time but since nobody except Primaldo spoke 'Florentine', he kept returning to the elderly tailor for conversation. Though the Archbishop was initially more suspicious of Tintin and had suggested pulling down Tintin's 'heathen-manner breeches' to check if he was circumcised in the Ottoman way or 'uncut like a good Christian', he soon seemed to have forgotten about the idea. Not that it would have put Tintin in any danger; uncircumcised as he was.

They still did not let Tintin go outside, but were starting to accept this peculiar stranger in strange clothes. The children were especially open-minded. One little girl, all childish earnestness, was convinced that Tintin needed to learn the _Angelo Custode_ Prayer in their language, and had him repeat it at least a dozen times.

_Angelu di Diu_

_ca sì u'me custodi,_

_alluminami, custudiscimi, tenimi e guvernami,_

_ca ti vinni datu da pietà celeste._

When Tintin had kneeled on the floor next to her, just about as they started to pray together, the little girl flicked his quiff, then watched his reaction. He just grinned. „_Ca bìeddu!_", she exclaimed gleefully and flicked his quiff again.

Other children watched with growing curiosity, and then a little boy wanted to flick Tintin's quiff, too. Before Tintin realized it, his hair had become the new favorite toy of a dozen Renaissance-era Southern Italian children.

.

The next day brought news that were slightly disturbing, at least to Tintin. Primaldo translated for him.

„They've sent the messenger again", the man-at-arms said when he arrived at the church. „Can you believe it? After we've made it clear that we would never surrender! They sent their goddamned proposal a second time!"

„Get to the point", Archbishop Pendinelli said gruffly.

„Well, our response was one they'll never forget! Our captains Zurlo and De Marco sent the messenger back, riddled with arrows!" He seemed delighted to recount the story. „And to remove any doubt, they took the keys to the city gates, and making sure everyone could see it, cast them into the sea! We'll never surrender to the infidels! _È la Divina Vuluntati!_"

Tintin assumed it'd be smarter to shut up – his opinion would be a very unpopular one. Actually he thought that the Ottomans were offering advantageous conditions, saying they'd let everyone live, unpunished, in exchange for surrender. Conversion to Islam seemed a small price to pay, but obviously the Otrantines did not think so. _Great snakes, _were they planning to become martyrs?

.

.

.

Brussels

1960

„Cuthbert, I beg you, turn on your confounded hearing aid!" Haddock shouted. Finally, Calculus understood and put the little device into his ear. „What is the matter, Captain?"

„I need to time-travel to the same place Tintin went. Now."

At first Calculus seemed as if he thought he'd mis-heard it, then he said, „But... Captain! I told you that I haven't found a way yet to bring time-travelers back here!"

„I know, and I still want to go."

„You might never come back here!"

„That's all the same to me, as long as I can find Tintin!"

Thundering typhoons, how could he possibly abandon Tintin? In Tibet he'd been ready to cut the rope and to sacrifice himself for the boy's sake, and his attitude had not changed since then. If anything, he'd gotten even more attached. And Snowy, of course, was missing his owner.

Archibald was a Haddock, and he wasn't afraid to follow his best friend into the most unconceivable danger!

„Well..." Calculus seemed only half-convinced, clearly struggling with his own conscience. „I don't know if I can bear the responsibility of making you both disappear."

„Blistering barnacles! Sooner or later you'd have sent us on a time journey anyway, you goat!"

„_Excuse me_?"

„Um... nothing! Nothing! I mean... that's what the machine is for, right? Please, let me travel! It's the only chance we have now of finding Tintin! While I'm gone, you'll work on the machine and find a way to bring us back, how about that?"

After what seemed like several minutes, Calculus finally said. „All right. So be it. But I need you to listen to me first. I am already halfway into developing a way to bring time-travelers back to their origin. Here's what you need to do..."


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Otranto

August 11, 1480

As more days in the cathedral passed by, Tintin found himself become more desperate and restless. The gnawing hunger in his stomach had already been replaced by an offended silence, as if his body had finally accepted the laughably tiny rations the Otrantines were willing to share with him. The bread was several days old and either very hard or starting to grow green mold; vegetables and fruit were wilted and soft (if they hadn't already rotted in the summer heat). The best-tasting foods were the dried meat, despite being very tough, and different kinds of biscuits. The familiar Catholic Mass rites did little to ease his growing homesickness, a feeling he'd rarely ever known until now.

It was the eleventh of August. For three days now they'd heard bombardments only in the distance, near the citadel, and Tintin wondered if the town was now destroyed because no more cannonballs were raining down upon them. Or perhaps the Ottomans were running out of projectiles, saving the remainders for the strategically more important citadel.

Primaldo told Tintin how worried he was because no messenger had arrived yesterday. Today, too, no one had come here yet. Primaldo was so nervous that Tintin suspected the uncertainty might drive him insane.

Indeed people here had a difficult time keeping their wits about them. The elderly kept a calm composure most of the time, but every day someone was having a nervous breakdown. Children were crying with hunger. One woman, Monna Vannozza, was nine months pregnant and even though a midwife was here, Tintin dreaded the prospect of possibly having to hear the screams of someone giving birth. And what if the Ottomans arrived here? As far as he knew, the Ottomans had never conquered Italy – that'd have changed the course of history as he knew it – but perhaps they had indeed managed to capture an Italian coastal town once?

_If I ever get out of here_, he swore to himself despite the protests of his logical mind, _I will read all about this in the library._

But maybe it did not matter. Maybe the place he was in now was just one of many, many universes and did not feature in the history books at all. In that case, it was quite possible that the Ottomans indeed would conquer all of Italy.

.

.

.

Garrison commander Francesco Zurlo knew he couldn't hold the citadel much longer. While some women and children had retreated to the cathedral together with the Archbishop, there were many more of them inside the citadel. The major part of the population of Otranto was inside this fortress while the men – and even some women – were standing at the merlons and fighting the Ottoman soldiers, _sipahis_ and janissaries with bows and arrows, buckets of hot tar, and stones thrown from the walls. Meanwhile, the enemy was now focusing his fire on one of the weakest points in the town wall, trying to open a breach.

Zurlo was almost ashamed that he had to be content fighting with a sword and crossbow while the Mahometans seemed to have almost unlimited artillery at their disposal. And the uncertainty was tormenting him. When would the military aid from Lecce or Naples finally arrive? Did Pope Sixtus IV. already know that the infidels were attacking Italy at this very moment?

Especially the janissaries, Ottoman elite soldiers in shiny armor with blue sleeves and white headdresses, were relentless in their attacks; assaulting the wooden town gate while others simultaneously tried to climb up to the battlement on the wall where Zurlo was standing.

His arm hurt from shooting nonstop, but he continued. „Watch the other side", he screamed to his men. „They're attacking a weak point over there!"

„Yes!" a young woman with a crossbow exclaimed triumphantly, „I killed one!"

Every single success, however small, was a gift from God. _Ave Maria gratia plena_... They needed a miracle! Where were the troops of Ferrante d'Aragon?

_Dominus tecum... Benedicta tu in mulieribus..._

Uttering a prayer from between gritted teeth, Zurlo hoisted a small Ottoman cannonball from the ground and threw it down from the merlons. It hit one of the enemies, who went down at once.

He heard their shouts, their unintelligible triumphant cries in the Ottoman language. The _Allahu akbar_ of many voices sent waves of terror through his entire body. In his desperation he screamed at them while throwing more bricks and stones down from the wall. „Go to hell, you devils! You demons! I'll send you all to hell!"

„Be quiet, _commandante_", Ladislao De Marco shouted towards him. „Save your energy for close combat!"

An arrow whistled past him, missing his head by a hair's breadth.

„_Commandante_", one of the guardsmen cried, „they're bringing ladders! What shall we do?"

„Push them down!"

Next to Zurlo, one of his men fell, hit by an arrow. But there was no time to take care of the injured. The Ottomans had considered that their ladders would most likely be pushed back, so they took the precaution of throwing long ropes with anchors from the ladders over the walls. Already the first janissaries were setting feet onto the battlement.

The garrison commander uttered a curse. He drew his sword. Its grip instantly became wet from the sweat of his hand; and he held onto it more tightly.

Deftly like grasshoppers, the Ottoman warriors leaped up the ladders onto the town walls.

Zurlo attacked one of them who dodged his blow effortlessly. The adversary's gaze was malicious, challenging.

They had lost.

It couldn't be! It simply couldn't be! Desperately, Zurlo attacked his foe without hitting him. The Ottoman fended off each blow with experienced agility. _Mary, Mother of God, help me!_ He had to defend Otranto, down to the last man and beyond!

Francesco Zurlo screamed; the realization of the impending defeat was too much. He wanted to shout an order.

There was no one around him whom he could order.

Enemies everywhere.

The Ottoman in front of him raised his scimitar. „_Allahu akbar!_"

_Defeat._ This was the last thought going through Zurlo's mind.

„_Allahu akbar!_"

He saw a brief sparkling of the curved blade in the light of the noon sun. Then, behind his eyelids, small barrels of gunpowder seemed to explode and flower like colorful lilies, creating chaotic, incoherent patterns, then everything went blurry in front of his eyes.

The town of Otranto fell on August eleven.

.

.

.

Just as Tintin was realizing that the cannonfire had subsided, there was a loud pounding on the cathedral doors – the messenger's code: two long knocks, two short knocks.

Primaldo leaped to his feet as if he'd been stung by a bee – Tintin was amazed at how fit this guy seemed for his age – and ran towards the door, opening it. Indeed it was the messenger: he seemed out of breath, yet still managed to shout something that Tintin didn't understand.

He heard a woman scream. A couple of children began to cry. Looking at the people around him, he saw mouths agape, and eyes widen in terror on several older and younger faces.

Primaldo translated it for him immediately. „They're here", he shouted at Tintin in Florentine, his voice cracking. „The Turks are here! The town is lost! Like Constantinople! _Healo he polis!_"

This was, as Tintin managed to understand by himself, Greek for 'the town is lost'.

_Healo he polis._

„_O Patri nostru_", an elderly woman sobbed, „_patri nostru, ca si nò celu-_"

„_È tìempu ri preghiera_!" shouted Archbishop Stefano Pendinelli, stepping forward with a golden crucifix in his hand. „It is time to pray!" His stern face on which Tintin had never seen a smile, now was pale, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead and hooked nose. „Come, everybody, let us pray! We shall meet the infidels in the presence of our Lord Jesus Christ!"

He stepped solemnly towards the altar, everyone's gaze following him. Some people cried, some were praying and clasping rosaries in their hands, but many were strangely calm as if they were ready for whatever may come. No one seemed to be excessively panicking.

Tintin noticed that his own legs were trembling. Primaldo was busy arranging some of the wooden benches in front of the church doors, and without questioning or commenting, Tintin helped him. He felt weak from lack of food; and as though his mind was protesting against the circumstances, he'd been daydreaming of Marlinspike Hall most of the day, even until now, too dazed to be truly scared of what was happening here.

_Tintin, wake up! This might well be your death!_

He forced himself to think; to ask questions like a journalist. What to do when faced with the kind of enemy you only knew from novels and movies? There was a marble font standing under a window, and Tintin tried to climb upon it to catch a glimpse of the outside _piazza_, but the window was too high to reach.

Archbishop Pendinelli had begun a sermon; almost everyone was listening attentively. Tintin was irritated: Even though the fortress had apparently been taken, those people still hoped for a divine intervention. Shouldn't they get ready to fight, to defend themselves? Even if they were not fighters, wouldn't they at least want to do their best?

From outside, he heard voices. Shouting. Yelling. The neighing of horses.

Thundering hooves.

The archbishop concluded his sermon with the Lord's Prayer in Latin. „_Pater noster, qui es in coelis..._" he began, looking heavenward and clasping the crucifix with sweaty fingers.

The audience mumbled the words. A heavy _thump_ announced someone at the door. Tintin froze.

They were here! The Ottomans were here!

„_...sanctificetur nomen tuum..._"

The voices got louder, and so did the trampling of hooves. Another hammering sound at the door. Realizing that only a few metres separated him from a gang of blood-thirsty Oriental soldiers, Tintin ran towards Primaldo. „What do we do?" he shouted. „There's a back exit, right? In the sacristy? Let's get out of here, let's lead everyone outside through the back!"

„_... adveniat regnum tuum..._"

To his dismay, Primaldo's expression was eeriely calm. „What for?" the elderly man simply asked.

„To escape!"

„I am at peace now", Primaldo responded. „Aren't you?"

_Great snakes! _Those people really did intend to become martyrs! Horrified, Tintin listened to the pounding at the door that became louder every second. How long would the door stand up?

„_Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra..._"

There was a loud crash, followed by a collective gasp from the people as they all turned around to the door. Tintin saw a wooden beam, used as an improvised battering ram, crush through the door. It threw over some of the flimsy benches that Primaldo had placed in front of the entrance.

The Archbishop did not interrupt praying. On the contrary: his voice became louder. „_Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie..._"

The wooden beam retreated. Then it hit the door again with even more force. Wood splintered, crushed, and rays of sunlight entered the church. Tintin could hear the attackers' voices much louder and clearer now. Shouting, laughing, and triumphant cries in a foreign language.

„_...et dimitte nobis debita nostra..._"

_Wham! _Another hit. The battering ram would soon reduce the door to rubble.

„_...sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris..._"

„Does anyone have a weapon?" Tintin shouted at the audience, well knowing that his panic was futile. „A sword? _Una spada?_ Anyone?"

Nobody responded; only the Archbishop spoke. „_Et non inducas nos in tentationem..._"

There was a large candle on the altar, sticking out from a brazen candle-holder that was almost as long as Tintin's lower arm. Disregarding the Archbishop's shocked expression, Tintin grabbed the candle-holder, and removed the candle to reveal a pointed spike. Holding that improvised weapon like a broadsword, he positioned himself right in front of the half-wrecked door, about four metres away from the foes.

Bright sunlight shone on his face, and for a while he could only blink, temporarily blinded by the sun and unable to see the attackers.

„_...sed libera nos a malo!_"

The Ottomans tore down the entire door.

* * *

><p>AUTHOR'S NOTES:<p>

Ohhh yes, I know it's a mean, _mean_ cliffhanger! But you do want to look forward to Tintin being badass, right? :) Don't worry, he'll be badass. And the Captain will prove himself, too!


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Otranto

July 29, 1480

Captain Haddock was glad to be first he'd thought he was actually going to be dispersed into thin air by that dratted monster machine, but after initial uncomfortableness due to the glaring light and a headache, he felt just fine.

Apart from the fact that he indeed had traveled. Once again, he realized he'd severely underestimated Calculus. A strange sense of awe gripped him, mixed with horror. He had _really_ traveled in time, hadn't he? _One billion blue blistering barnacles! _

He had no idea what this place could possibly be. European Middle Ages? He and Snowy were standing in an unpaved town square with several footprints and some items strewn about but there were no people at all. Seagulls were croaking and cawing in the sky above him, and he almost expected them to drop some guano onto his hat, because, well, it was always _him_ to whom that kind of thing happened.

Was this Italy? Spain? Greece? Certainly it was somewhere in Southern Europe, judging from the hot sun. What year was it? Recalling what he'd read about architecture, that church in front of him seemed to have been built in pre-Gothic times, perhaps in the 11th or 12th century. But that did not tell him much.

He should worry more about possible language barriers. He spoke only English, French and some Bruxellois dialect, having forgotten most of the Latin he'd learnt in school. But Latin had been more popular in the Middle Ages, right? Someone was bound to understand his pathetic attempts at that useless, forgotten language. (How did one say „Blistering barnacles!" in Latin?) English was still an obscure Barbarian dialect confined to the British island, so if he was lucky he'd meet someone who spoke French.

If this wasn't the same place in which Tintin had landed, he was now quite in a mess. But perhaps not as big as the mess that Tintin was in. After all, Professor Calculus had given Haddock a prototype of the device that was supposed to bring them back from where they came – something Tintin did not possess. It was a small, flat metal box the size of a toast slice that, if he'd understood Calculus' explanations correctly, somehow could recall the kind of wormhole that had brought them here. But it wasn't finished. It required extra adjustments in the actual time machine in Calculus' laboratory; and apparently this matter was so complicated that the ingenious Professor still had no idea how to go about it.

Well, Haddock hoped Calculus would have figured it out in at least a month.

Keeping Snowy close by, he checked the surroundings. Some of the houses were white-washed, others built of bare brick. Some looked new, others were run-down and covered with grime and guano. Near the horizon he saw a large stone castle that reminded him of the Rumeli fortress near Istanbul where they had once gone on a quest for the secret of the 'Golden Fleece'. But this wasn't Turkey here, was it? There were Christian tabernacles on the house walls, and a colorful painted statue of some patron saint.

„Come here, Snowy." The dog followed Captain Haddock as he walked towards the fortress, still surprised at how empty the narrow street was. Where was everybody? Thundering typhoons, a forlorn ghost town was the last thing he needed when he wanted to find answers!

A sudden explosion startled him. Where had that come from?

A cannonball leaping out from behind the citadel provided the answer.

„What in the name of one billion blistering barnacles?" he shouted. Snowy started to whimper.

His instinct shouted _danger_, and he knew it was probably smarter to run in the opposite direction of where the shots were fired, but he also knew if there was danger, then Tintin usually was in it. By one thousand thundering typhoons, the lad's true talent was getting himself into dangerous situations! And he still needed answers. If time travel was possible, then truly anything was possible. Determinedly, he walked towards the citadel.

_Boom. Boom._ More cannonballs flew through the air, crashing into roofs. Then one landed onto the street only one meter in front of him. Snowy barked nervously.

Getting quite anxious himself, Haddock picked up Snowy and held him in his arms in an half-hearted attempt to calm down both the dog and himself.

The road was getting wider and he could now see the citadel in front of him. It was smaller than the Rumeli fortress but still an imposing sight with its high stone walls with squat, round towers that were surrounded by a deep trench.

Snowy began to bark, squirming in his arms; and now Haddock, too, noticed someone standing on the walls of the fortress. As far as he could see from here – the glaring sunlight didn't help – it was a man carrying something.

The person noticed Captain Haddock and shouted something.

Other people appeared on the citadel walls, looking at him; apparently they were unsure what to make of him, just like he had no idea what to do.

No, wait! It was perfectly clear what he had to do. Whatever was happening here, this town was being attacked, and it'd probably be much safer inside that citadel! If Tintin had gotten here, he would probably think the same, and perhaps he was already inside!

„_Salve_", Captain Haddock shouted towards the men on the battlement. „_Non temete! Ego sum... ego sum..._" His Latin failed him. Snowy barked.

One of the men shouted something at him, then at the others. To Haddock's dismay, one of them drew a crossbow and pointed an arrow directly at him, still shouting something that he did not understand, but it sounded remotely Italian.

This was bad. Hastily setting Snowy upon the ground, Haddock retreated a step and raised his arms, not really intending to go back, but to show a clear nonverbal signal that he was not an enemy. To hell with it, he'd use French! „Don't shoot", he shouted. „Put down those toys already, they're dangerous! I'm not your enemy, you get that? _Capito?_ Don't shoot!"

The person on the battlement barked a response.

Whatever that was. „Don't shoot", Haddock repeated in French, suddenly realizing that if the French were the enemies, then he'd be in big trouble. „I'm not dangerous! I'm not even armed, see?" He raised his hands higher, frantically searching for Latin phrases. „_Amicus sum!_ I'm a friend! You understand?"

They kept their arrows pointed at him; and only minutes later the gate of the citadel opened. A group of three men walked towards Haddock, their hands on the hilts of their swords, fixing their suspicious gaze upon him. Snowy growled. „Shut up", Haddock hissed at the dog. From the men's clothes he tried to deduct what year it was. They looked definitely 'medieval' if there was such a thing, but they were dressed in different, confusing styles he couldn't place. Or perhaps that was just his imagination: after all, he was guilty of preconceived notions about the Middle Ages.

„_Vuatri cue siete?_" one of the men shouted at him when they were only about three metres apart.

„My name is Archibald", he responded in French. His raised arms were starting to hurt. „I come in peace. _Pax._" He remembered the Italian word, one of the few he knew. „_Pace!_"

„_Francese?_" the man asked.

He understood and affirmed, hoping it was no deathly mistake. He wasn't truly French, but he had no desire to explain things further. „Yes! I am French! _Francese!_"

.

.

.

As it turned out, the people in the citadel had a French speaker among them. He introduced himself to Haddock as Ladislao De Marco, a well-traveled – for his time and age – gentleman and self-declared town mayor. „_Monsieur_, I offer my deepest apologies for treating you like a prisoner but under the present circumstances I'm sure you'll understand that we have no choice. We must be wary of anyone who is a stranger." He would be closely watched, and when the time for battle came, they'd expect him to lend a helping hand. Haddock understood that he'd have to give definite proof that he was no enemy.

De Marco's French sounded strange, but understandable which gave him a sense of relief. Finally he could get some answers! He learnt that this town was called Otranto and that since yesterday it was under siege by the „infidels".

„Which 'infidels'?" Heavens, he must appear stupid, having no idea what was going on.

„The Mahometans, of course!" De Marco gave him a questioning look.

„Yes, they're Muslims, I get it! But from where?"

Clearly De Marco hadn't quite understood Haddock, but he finally gave the right answer. „It's the Turks", he said. „The ones who conquered Constantinople. Sultan Mehmed, you've heard of him, right?" The mayor raised an eyebrow.

„Of course, of course", Haddock said hastily. „Yes, I understand now."

_Blistering barnacles!_ A small, backwards, sleepy Southern Italian town under attack by the ever-expanding, war-thirsty, technologically advanced Ottoman Empire, now _that_ was the scenario he'd just _hoped_ to land in, he thought sarcastically. And he still had no idea what year it was, but he did not dare ask, afraid to make even more of a fool of himself.

Playing the role of a stranger who'd just arrived in this town, Captain Haddock was grateful that this town was apparently big enough to make nobody question his very presence here, despite his anachronistic appearance.

In fact, De Marco had told him, they'd mistaken him for a Turk at first glance because of his beard. But this man, who was well informed in the ways of the world, knew for a fact that only the Sultan and his Grand Viziers were allowed to grow full beards, and deduced that Haddock most likely was not one of them, despite his foreign way of dressing and talking.

The citadel was crowded with hundreds of people – men and women both old and young, and many children. De Marco assigned Haddock the task of helping an arrowsmith with his work, leaving a heavily armed guard with him. Snowy drew curious glances from the people and soon children tried playing with him.

Realizing he was about to be left alone in a damp, dark room to do tedious work with people whose language he did not understand, he called De Marco just as that man was about to leave, going back to the battlement or whatever important duties of town-defending he had. „Wait, _Monsieur!_ Wait! There's something... I..."

De Marco turned around, facing Haddock. The guard looked at Haddock suspiciously.

„There's someone I need to find... Have you seen a young man called Tintin?"

The man raised both eyebrows. „_Tintin?_ What kind of quaint name is that?"

He was right – perhaps Tintin was actually using another name. _If you happened to have landed in the same time-place as he did_, Haddock corrected himself. He had no way to know if Tintin perhaps hadn't landed somewhere completely different, by whatever flight of fancy that blasted time machine worked.

No! He must make the best of this. He'd give himself time, even if it took longer than a month!

There was that nagging fear. What if Tintin was not here _and_ there was no way to ever return home?

Bollocks! He must not think of this. Looking at Snowy, he told himself he'd keep calm and carry on, like they'd always said in the Navy.

„Well, maybe he uses another name, but hear me out – he's a rather short guy with a round baby face, looks about 15 to 20 years old, and he has red hair with a quiff standing up above the forehead. Oh yeah, and his ears stick out to the sides. A lot."

De Marco just gave him a blank stare.

„He's probably wearing brown pants... 'breeches', you'd say, right? And a blue pullover. Have you seen him? Or anyone who looks like that?"

Slowly, his 'friend' (that's how Haddock wanted to think of the only person in this confounded place he could actually make conversation with) shook his head. „No. Never heard of anyone like that." He shrugged. „I'm sorry."

AUTHOR'S NOTE:


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Otranto

August 11, 1480

There was a loud _thump_ as the attackers carelessly let the battering ram drop to the ground and entered the cathedral.

Tintin held his breath. It was a group of no more than a dozen men, one of which sat on a giant horse bedecked in armor. The rider wore a white turban and a breast plate of sparkling brass or gold, the others wore similarly shiny pointed helmets and carried long, curved swords. Unlike Tintin had feared, they were not storming the church but making a solemn entrance – at least for now.

The entire cathedral had fallen silent save for the cries of a few children. The horseman who seemed to be some sort of leader, judging from his fine clothes, shiny armor and the jewel-studded scimitar sheath hanging from his belt – let his gaze wander over the congregation, then he looked at Tintin. He had an intelligent face with sharp features, high cheekbones and a sparkle in deep-set eyes. Still gripping the candle-holder, arms and legs shaking, Tintin stared back at him, waiting for him to attack.

With some curiosity he noted that they all wore moustaches.

The Archbishop interrupted the silence. Holding the golden crucifix in front of him, he stepped towards the rider and declared in Latin, „You have entered a sanctuary! Leave us, servant of Satan, or the wrath of God shall descend upon you! This land is under the protection of Our Lord Jesus Christ!"

The Ottoman leader drew his scimitar, and to Tintin's surprise he responded in Latin. „Speak not the name of Jesus! This town is now under the rule of the Lord God Almighty, whose prophet is Muhammad! _Inshallah_!"

„I order you to return to whence you came!" Archbishop Pendinelli barked, still holding up the crucifix. „In the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ!"

„Speak not the name of Jesus!" The horse dashed forward, and there was a flash of reflected sunlight on a long curved blade as the Ottoman brandished his scimitar and with one swift, forceful thrust beheaded Archbishop Stefano Pendinelli.

People screamed. Tintin stood there, frozen in shock at the sudden violence he had just witnessed – he had seen a lot before, but nothing like this.

Now the rider shouted something in Ottoman that Tintin did not understand. „_Onları yakalamak!_"

The soldiers stormed toward the crowd of people, and within moments there was a great chaos of screams, shouts and frenzied struggle but surprisingly little bloodshed: Tintin understood that they intended to capture the people as prisoners.

As two soldiers came toward him, Tintin saw the leader point his scimitar at him, and again he shouted something in Ottoman. „_Genç adam öldürmez! Onu yakalayın!_"

Wishing he had taken Turkish lessons (it would've been _so_ easy with his talent for languages, to learn yet another in addition to the dozen he already knew!), Tintin prepared himself for attack. One man reached for Tintin's improvised weapon, but Tintin was faster and swung the candle-holder against his opponent's skull. The man went down at once, but now another attacked Tintin.

„Stay back", he screamed and went to deliver another hit to the next attacker. He saw the leader descend from his horse and walk towards him. The Ottoman was grinning at him. „_O harika bir hediye olacaktır!_"

„Whatever you say, you mobster", Tintin shouted at him in his native French and almost knocked out another attacker; but before he could deliver the next blow he felt himself being seized by three men. One of them grabbed the candle-holder, and when Tintin did not let go, the leader shouted an order.

Struggling to free himself from their grip, Tintin suddenly felt a quick breeze of air, then a sharp _thud_ on the back of his head. For a second he saw stars bloom in front of his eyes, then everything was enveloped in silent darkness.

.

Tintin awoke to a splitting headache. His head felt as though brazen bells were tolling inside it. The second thing he noticed was the smell of the ground on which he lay. Hard, rough wood with a strange smell, perhaps from a kind of tree he did not know. He was lying on his stomach, and his cheek felt raw from the wood. Then he realized that his hands were tied on his back, and his feet had been bound together. Panic rose up inside him. Where was he?

With some effort he managed to turn his body around. The ropes were tied tightly and his wrists hurt. At least he was conscious and seemed to be fine, even though this bastard of an attacker had almost smashed his head.

He looked up to a low, wooden ceiling and saw that the entire room was made of wood. Rays of light shone through a hatch above, and further back in the room several barrels were standing. He heard tiny, shuffling footsteps – perhaps mice or rats – then heavier, stomping ones.

There they were again. Ottoman soldiers. Confused, he could not identify them – those were not his attackers but different men. They wore blue, knee-long robes beneath their armor and pointed white headdresses. They bent over him, giving him curious looks.

„What the-?" Tintin uttered in Italian, or 'Florentine'. Great snakes! He was a captive now, wasn't he?

_Just great, Tintin._ Just great.

One of the soldiers grinned, bringing his face closer to Tintin's. His warm breath smelled of overcooked vegetables and rotten teeth, and for a moment Tintin felt nauseated. Then the Ottoman spoke. "_Hanımefendi nasıldir?_"

Tintin just stared at him blankly.

Maybe one of them understood Italian, though, so he made an attempt. His throat felt dry and his voice sounded like a croak. „Tell me... am I on a ship? Where am I?"

The men looked at each other and laughed. „_O gerçekten güzel._" - "_Haydi eğlenin!_"

Before Tintin could assess the situation properly, he heard the strange voice, sharp and commanding. The soldiers backed off, and now Tintin saw a man climbing down through the hatch.

The stranger was that kind of person who drew curious looks with their peculiar outward appearance no matter where they went. He looked rather foreign, and - if there was such a thing – _savage_, but he spoke the Ottoman language and shouted at the soldiers.

One of the soldiers tried to interrupt him, but the strange man wouldn't let him talk. He went on with his tirade, pointing at Tintin, then at the men.

The stranger was a short man, barely taller than Tintin, but more muscular and sturdily built. His leathery skin was the color of bronze, and his long black hair was messy and partially matted as though he had never combed it; but he had made an effort to tame several strands into something strangely similar to dreadlocks, and he'd braided colorful bands into some of them. Tintin could not categorize this most unusual look. The man wore a tunic of rough cloth and - despite the heat - the fur of a tiger around his shoulders. Leather strings adorned with pearls and animal teeth adorned his wrists and ankles. Unlike the other Ottomans, he was beardless. Perhaps he was Northern African? His age was hard to estimate – perhaps between thirty and forty years, Tintin guessed.

Though he did not understand a single word, Tintin knew the man must have commanded the soldiers to leave. They followed his order and climbed out of the room. Tintin now was alone with this – how could he say? - barbarian?

"Let me untie you." He knelt down to loosen the ropes around Tintin's ankles, and finally they fell off. "Get up, lad."

Tintin believed to have mis-heard him. This guy had just spoken Italian, something quite close to Florentine! "Who are you?" he demanded to know. "Why am I here? Where are the other people from Otranto?"

"Shut up!"

Tintin realized he must have looked quite panicked for a moment, because the guy suddenly started to laugh. "Ha, ha, ha! Now, don't look like a startled cow! C'mon, come with me. I won't do anything to you!" He flashed a smile and reached Tintin his hand. "You're safe here, trust me. Don't worry about the janissaries."

Tintin was not one to trust his captor – or whoever that was – so easily, but his curiosity always won. "Janissaries? What do you mean?"

„Oh, right, you don't know that yet. Those soldiers were janissaries. They belong to the elite unit of _Fatih_ Sultan Mehmed. They're no common soldiers but the best of the best, the Sultan's own troop of bodyguards. I guess they were bored and wanted to have fun with you, but they're not allowed to even look at you!"

Tintin raised an eyebrow, but did not ask further questions. Doing his job as a reporter was most likely pointless here. He had to keep his eyes open for an opportunity to escape.

The man climbed up the latch, and then helped Tintin whose hands were still bound, up as well. They stood on the deck of a ship, and the sun was shining. Tintin saw the beach where soldiers had put up several large, colorful tents. The town walls of Otranto, from where smoke was rising, were visible just behind the Ottoman camp.

Janissaries were standing on the deck, staring at him, but Tintin ignored them.

The man who looked like a Northern African finally introduced himself. „I'm Alessandro Dossena", he said, grinning.

„You are from Tuscany?" That would explain why he spoke the Italian 'dialect' Tintin knew.

„I hail from Livorno. My mother was Egyptian, that's where I got my looks. But I didn't really know her, grew up all by myself. When I was your age, I signed up as a cabin-boy on an Albanian trading ship. Huge mistake. We were robbed by the Ottomans and they killed most of us; but let me live as their slave because I was still young. When their leader noticed my language talent, they made me a translator."

Tintin nodded, now understanding why this Alessandro guy spoke both Italian and Ottoman. „But... are you still a slave?"

Alessandro nodded. „Yes, because to them, I'm a heathen. Never converted to that strange faith of theirs. But they treat me well."

„If you're a slave, why can you command the janissaries?"

„Because I've been assigned the responsibility to watch over you, _ragazzo_. Only in that matter they have to obey me. Or they'll be in trouble with their commander." Most likely Alessandro was a little older than Tintin had first guessed, because when he smiled, there were a lot of crows-feet in the corners of his eyes. „Now, listen, boy in strange clothes! Your name?"

„Tintin. And look who's talking!"

Again, that smile. He laughed „Good. Now listen, Tintin. You've got to forget everything that was until now. Otranto does not exist anymore for you; your former life is over. Got that?"

His former life in 1960s Brussels, Belgium? _No way!_ But Tintin nodded, seeing no point in explaining that he wasn't really an Otrantine, from the 1480s.

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTES<strong>

Poor Tintin. Always gets knocked out. Well, it's canon :D  
>Translations of the Turkish sentences:<p>

onları yakalamak! - Capture them!

Genç adam öldürmez! Onu yakalayın! - Don't kill the young man! Capture him!

O harika bir hediye olacaktır. - He'll be a great gift.

"Hanımefendi nasıldir?" - (How is) the lady?


End file.
